Free Beautiful People: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints by Simon Doonan Page B

the front of her head, giving her the appearance of an exotic, prize-winning gourd.
    “Oh maaay Goahwd!” said Betty, whose Belfast accent tended to resurface during times of stress.
    “It’s really nothing. I walked into a lamppost,” said Phyllis, not wanting to get me into trouble. “I think I might just pop upstairs to the attic and lie down for a bit.”
    Phyllis slept until the next morning. When she came down for her Gayelord Hauser–recommended breakfast, we all tried hard not to look at the gourd. Occasionally Phyllis would touch it and emit an “Oooh!” of surprise. It was slightly larger than before.
    The damage was never officially assessed. No doctors were ever consulted. A week later the gourd began to shrink. Six months later it was all but gone, leaving only a three-inch-long indentation.
    *  *  *
    Our forays to the Slope continued, but not without incident.
    On more than one occasion, raincoat-wearing flashers ogled us from the bushes, taking cruel advantage of Aunt Phyllis’s handicap.
    “Lassie, whatever are you growling at?” Phyllis would say as the horrid, grinning men waved their rhubarb-colored offerings in our direction.
    My sister and I never said anything to Phyllis about these perverts. Why spoil a lovely evening?
    At least the raincoat brigade kept their paws to themselves. The same cannot be said of the horny hounds who regularly launched themselves at Lassie with such relentless fervor. Phyllis took great pride in the fact that she had always successfully managed to defend Lassie against these would-be rapists.
    On one vile and memorable occasion, she lost the battle.
    One sunny evening a demonic black Baskerville hound leapt from the bushes. He fixed his gaze on the alluring Lassie and licked his lips. He then bounded toward us and jumped onto Lassie’s back without so much as a “Lovely weather we’re having!” or a “Do you come here often?”
    We whacked the violator with tree branches and pelted him with conkers and insults. He began to jiggle his nasty jiggle. We screamed. Phyllis used bad language and thrashed him with Lassie’s harness. Nothing could dislodge him. He looked quite happy. To make matters worse, so did Lassie.
    “Run home and get your father, and don’t stop at the sweetshop. Hurry!” commanded Phyllis.
    I barreled through the streets of Reading like a Pamplona person and burst into the living room.
    “Dad! Lassie is—”
    “Shhhhhhh! As soon as this is over.”
    Terry was engrossed in watching Z Cars, a biweekly cop drama which held the whole of early 1960s England in its thrall. As per his edict, I waited patiently until the program had finished. But it was already too late. As the credits rolled, Shelagh and Aunt Phyllis were hurrying in through the front gate, dragging Lassie, who was dragging her new boyfriend. This tableau vivant relieved me of the need to explain the unexplainable.
    Terry rushed outside and turned the hose on the persistent fornicator. This made no difference. He kept on doing his horrid jiggle.
    Eventually fatigue set in, and probably hunger. Lassie’slover jiggled to a stop and slid off her back. He then loped off down the street without so much as a “We really must do this more often,” or even a “Thanks, luv!”
    Terry was suitably mortified. He apologized profusely for stifling my attempts to communicate and for privileging his TV watching over defending Lassie against rape.
    Nobody seemed inclined to discuss that horrid jiggling. Nobody seemed to have the right words to describe what had occurred. Or the inclination. Jiggling was embarrassing and animalistic and strange. Jiggling involved violence, chaos, and mayhem. No wonder ladies like Phyllis chose not to jiggle.
    *  *  *
    Years passed. Phyllis thrived. Lassie died and was succeeded by various less glamorous varmints. Eventually, Betty decided to give all the lodgers their marching orders. She needed a break from washing people’s undies and cutting up